Blue Kingdom
by David Talman
Summary: A world of magic and mystery is held by a false king as civil war, divine intervention, and a new horor come forth, as the true king comes of age to regain his rightful honor, and restore House Boyd.
1. Prelude

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------- AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm sorry to say that I hate the way the stories come out once uploaded. Thus – if you wish to get a copy of how I really wrote it – just ask. I may get a website online sooner or later and I'll post them there. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------  
  
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; Where those who sought thee in the Holy Scripture, Or in the wine-vat, Dwell beyond the stir  
  
And tumult of defeated dreams; And deep among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep Men have thee named Beauty. Thy great leaves enfold The ancient beards, The helms of ruby and gold  
  
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise In the Druid's vapor that makes the torches dim; Till frenzy awoke and he died;  
  
And him who met the Fae walking among flaming dew By a grey shore where the wind never blew, And lost the world and bliss for a kiss; And him who drove the gods out of their bliss,  
  
And till a hundred morns had flowered red Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead; And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown  
  
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods: And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, And sought through lands and islands numberless years,  
  
Until he found, with laughter and with tears, A woman of so shining loveliness That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,  
  
I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die? Surely thy hour has come, thy great wind blows, Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose? 


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One  
  
The rose. The later legends carried down through the people and places, themselves legendary, say the rose was small. Small even for those times and those people, those who came before. Dark it was, night dark, blood dark warm sweet darkness of the soul. Almost black was the redness of it. Hidden in the secrets and whispers of later folk, the Elves and Fae. Wizards and Warlocks and such are references to the rose, the dark rose. Alluded to in song and verse the black rose became legend. Dusty forgotten volumes hint of the power, of magic, of the amassing of great wealth, of life and love and of dark hidden things. Said to be the stuff of potions and spells. Able to influence emotions and passions they said.  
  
Thought by all to be lost, the mysterious black rose and its secrets have in fact been guarded by the sacred Order of the Black Rose. Hidden in unlikely places, sequestered among its much larger cousins, this delicate wind dark miniature masterpiece is still being cared for by the chosen ones of the Order. Only the elders of the Order may grow the Black Rose. Others may, at certain times, be allowed to possess it.  
  
It is one such notes as these that our story begins. Deep within the Rose. As the great Queen Elizabeth bears down onto her unborn child, struggling to see the likes of day. Surrounded by the royal know-it-alls, the mages, and clerics.. The Druids and nobles of the day. Shean passed the floors, wishing it was all over.. wishing he could something.. The mighty king in all his glory.. Helpless.  
  
The hours pass slowly as the night's heat burns though the cold, dark air. By morning break a loud cry is heard as the newborn baby takes his first breath, and a roar of the crowd waiting outside to castle screams through the windows of air and stone.  
  
That was decades ago. When all was well through out the mighty Kingdom of Evermore. The place where all is not what it seems. And as the cool air of the summer breeze blows through the great ruins of what was once the city of Evermore.. the place where Julian was born, and almost raised.. The place where legends where made. Where his father fell, and was lost in the ashes.. Where the greatest evil had taken place. Home.  
  
Julian stood upon the rubble of the great city wall, where the hell-walkers and golden-claws broke into the city the night he was born. The air was dusty as the great yellow sun set to the east, as the dim red globe of evenings light rose in the west. There was always a distant sunlight in the lands of Evermore.  
  
Julian's long blond hair blew in the breeze as he slowly kneeled down and picked up an old rusted blade, still stained with the black blood of the demons of Pandora. It was a wonder how anyone survived that night.. And it was still a mystery how the demons escaped the prison that was created for them. Few have ever seen Pandora, and yet fewer ever lived to tell the story. It was a evil place, dark, and void of light.. Julian has been told stories of the place since his childhood in the Druid's Temple. He was tired of hiding from the council – tired of being someone he wasn't. He was no druid – never was, never would be. Sooner or later Dupala would just have to accept that.  
  
Julian placed the rusted and broken blade into his day sack, stood slowly against the breeze that hardened as the gray storm clouds came closer. His grey-blue eyes scanned the horizon, stopping at the only building left untouched the night the great capital fell. – The Druid's Temple. There stood an old man, wrapped in a dirty gray cloak and supported by a thin walking stick. The man slowly walked toward Julian as he put his blond hair into the warriors braid he usually wore.  
  
Julian's eyes left the man as he came close enough to speak, and looked out at the blood stained stones where his father had died protecting his newly born son..  
  
"I thought I'd find you here young Prince.." Dupala says calmly as he climbs the old stones..  
  
"Don't you ever go away Druid?" The Prince replies with great regret.  
  
"It's been thirty-two years since this place fell, and yet you can still smell the ash clear as day"  
  
"Lets go Dupala – after all, you came here to drag me out of my stumper right?" Dupala snickers as he states almost matter-of-factly "Well, hey.. we can't have you running around and getting yourself killed can we?"  
  
The two looked funny walking down the path to old Druid Temple – the only building still standing, nearly untouched.. Julian stood tall and thin. His long blond hair tied in a pony's tail, his blue tunic tight fitting and armed with a single sword. He looked down at Dupala, the old man was wearing his white robes, as he walked with a single cane. His gray hair looked like rages... Yet here they where. The Prince, and his guardian.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------â¦------------------ ------------------------------  
  
The large atrium was dimly lit by the hundreds of candles spread out among the rows of on-lookers as the great Council of Houses argued amongst themselves on the floor.  
  
"It is time for the prince to meet his duties. It has been far to long – his training must begin!" Duke Sanderosa yelled out among the whispers.  
  
"He is still a child! His father left his well being up to me – and I don't feel he is ready! He lacks discipline and is just coming into his gifts!" Dupala yelled out with vigor.  
  
As the arguing continued, the irritation began to show on the Council Lord's dark face..  
  
"ORDER! – This is not a circus, this is the council – and what we say, goes. If we feel the prince should begin his training, then so be it." Lord Sanderosa states with vigor and disgust. "This is how it will be – I here by ORDER the prince into training by the council. His guardianship will be handed over to the council – and I expect him here by tomorrow morning, or we'll come and get him. Got it Dupala?" Sarak Sanderosa, Lord of the Council, and son to Duke Sanderosa – stated with hatred. The young, strongly built, heir to the house of war stood, his blood red robes flowing mystically around his body as he seemed to float there, the power of his blood flowing from him like rays of dark light. It was no secret that he was the heir to the darkest, most twisted house in all the kingdom. It was rumored that his blood was black, and heart as evil as a hell-walker. As the Lord turned, his long, black hair blocking the features of his face, he quietly whispered, "Council is adjourned. Nothing else will be heard".  
  
Dupala was stunned. He knew the council had become corrupt, with no king or ruling power on the throne for over thirty years – it has fallen to the highest bidder. Somewhere between House Divine and House Sanderosa. Which one really ruled, was anyone's guess. He turned, and slowly walked out of the council hall, draped over his cane like the old man he was. It seemed to him, that his age was finally starting to show, as his breath became thin and difficult for the first time in years. The stress of his charge became almost to much to bear. He couldn't hand over the prince – he knew all the bad things that they would twist him to become. He was to easy to forge right now – his gifts were too powerful, to young.. He had to do something. Quick. 


End file.
